


polaroids. (arthur morgan)

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Confessions, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, Sexy Times, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, papa!Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Snapshots between you and everyone’s favorite delicious cowboy, gorgeous outlaw and dangerous & darling cinnamon roll.





	1. aging like a fine wine.

He can’t believe it.

The little girl - the five-year-old child - whose parents had been slaughtered in an O’Driscoll skirmish all those years ago, who was taken into the custody of her estranged grandfather across the country, who’d begged him, Hosea and Dutch not to let them take her, that she didn’t want to leave, she wanted to stay with her family.

They fought tooth-and-nail for her, never set-up camp in a single place for longer than two days, but it wasn’t enough.

Your grandfather and his men snatched you right out of their arms.

Arthur didn’t speak a single word for weeks after you’d been taken -  stolen \- from them. 

He didn’t think he’d ever see you again.

The adorable little girl who asked Hosea to teach her to read, dismissing the statement that she was too young, inspiring Arthur to start learning because he’s thirteen years her senior - for Christ’s sake, how did he get this far without knowing how to read? h.

Who would happily join Hosea during his fishing trips, only to fall asleep in the boat because the water was serene, the cotton-candy colors of dawn bled across the horizon like something out of a fairy tale and Hosea would hum soft tunes that lulled her into a peaceful doze against Hosea’s back, who was smiling all the while.

Who’d teach Arthur how to write in cursive whenever they had free-time.

Who’d revered Arthur’s drawings like they deserved to be up in museums and rich folks’ auctions. 

Who‘d slink around town when they were scouting for potential jobs or picking-up bounty rewards, returning to their sides like she’d never left, brandishing a toothy grin and a handful of money clips from the pompous snobs who had more than enough cash to share.

Who’d killed a wolverine that had sneaked into camp in the middle of the night with a tiny pistol she’d stolen from the gun shop in Strawberry.

Who’d been reprimanded by Hosea for having a loaded weapon for God-knows-how-long and not telling him about it.

“I just wanted to help—“ 

“You are a child, Buchanan! Guns are not toys! How many times have we told you that?!” 

“I didn’t use it like one, Uncle Hosea! Everyone was asleep! I wanted to protect our family, just like everyone else does!”

Hosea’s at a loss for words - anger, disappointment, fear raging within him so viciously that it leaves him emotionally unstable - storms off with your gun stashed in his jacket and a jaw so tight that you aren’t sure if he’ll be able to open his mouth again. 

Dutch lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding - he hadn’t seen Hosea get that riled-up in a long while - before he heaves a heavy sigh and places a meaty hand on your shoulder.

“Just give him time, kiddo. But you can’t have a gun until you’re a lil’ older, all right? It ain’t because we don’t trust you, but because they’re dangerous. We’ll start-off with smaller weapons, practice with that slingshot Arthur bought you, and work our way up from there. Sound good?”

You don’t say anything, nod minutely, having a staring contest with the ground.

You long, chestnut hair hides your face, but the giveaway is in your stark-white, clenched fists.

You aren’t angry.

You’re just doing anything (everything) you can not to cry after being berated by the person you’d considered your father more than an uncle, more than your actual father. 

Dutch frowns, gives Arthur a torn look, before pecking the top of your head andwandering off after Hosea to placate him.

When it’s only you and Arthur, he slowly kneels down in front of you, waits for you to raise your head and look at him. 

When you do, he offers you a gentle smile. 

“Let’s go skin your kill, huh? Pelt‘ll get us good cash ‘cause you, lil’ sharpshooter, nailed it ‘tween the eyes. And Grimshaw’s got fresh spices for the meat for dinner.” 

Just like that, the tension melts from your muscles and you smile as much as you can after enduring the scolding of a lifetime.

•

Thirteen Years Later...

•

God above, you’ve matured into a fine woman.

“Didn’t think you’d remember that little brat that used to annoy you constantly.”

“You ain’t never annoyed me, Buchanan. Matter o’ fact, you’re the reason I learned how to read and write.”

“You remember that?”

“‘Course I do. I ain’t that old, y’know.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“I didn’t do anything - just helped you write in fancy letters. Hosea’s the one who taught you to read.”

“True enough, but Hosea taught you first. When I realized a kid could read and write, it was the kick in the ass I needed to start learning myself.”

“Is that right? Well... I’m glad I could be of service.”

“That and plenty more. Don’t think we forgot about your sticky fingers, accuracy with a slingshot and nailin’ a full-grown wolverine with a single shot ‘tween the eyes.”

“You remember that?”

Arthur chuckles, as light as he can through his gruff timbre.

“Did you really think I’d forget?”

The smile that etches across your face is so beautiful, so blinding that Arthur ducks his head beneath his hat to hide his flushed cheeks.

God above, you’re absolutely gorgeous.


	2. bar fight.

You don’t know how you ended up in this position.

Honestly. 

One minute, you’re celebrating over a few rounds of choice whiskey with Lenny and Javier for a magnificent heist that’d be keeping the gang nice and comfy for at least a whole month, the alcohol loosening your inhibitions and greeting your tongue like a long-lost lover. 

The next, you’re staring at a ghost from Arthur’s past.

“You must be my replacement.”

You pitch an eyebrow at the term.

Though it sounded more like an insult than anything, you can’t help but chuckle. 

Alcohol has always made you more amicable. 

“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart - but I ain’t anyone’s replacement. Completely original and limited edition. Grab one before they’re gone for Christmas.” 

The stranger chuckles, as if you’d just performed an amusing trick.

“Well, if nothing else, you do have a sense of humor.” 

“I’ll drink to that!” You cheer, finishing your drink, the bar cheering and chasing their drinks down with you.

“I’ll get the next round.” 

The stranger waves at the barkeep, with an arrogant air that has you rolling your eyes but biting your tongue because she is buying your drinks, after all.

“Thank you kindly, Miss...?”

“Linton. Mary Linton.”

Just like that, your good mood sours. 

“Y’know what? I’m feeling strangely sober. Feel free to pay for the rest of the boys, though.” 

“Aw, don’t get shy now. Things are just getting interesting,” she purrs, heavily-ringed fingers curling around your bicep, effectively keeping you in place, using a voice that’s sickly sweet, so much so that you think she‘s ruined desserts for you completely. 

Trap. 

This is a trap. 

“Is that right?”

Leave. 

Leave right—

“How so?” 

You fucking idiot.

•

Arthur’s been looking for you, Lenny and Javier (really, he’s been looking for you, but if Lenny and Javier happen to be in the area, just means less terrain to travel later) for the better half of an hour.

When he does finally find the bar you’ve retired to, he would’ve sighed in relief, ordered a few drinks to catch-up because Lord knows the three of you could hold your liquor and he would not be left behind.

Only, a familiar face slides into his line-of-view, and every muscle in his body goes rigid.

What is she doing here?

More than that...

Why are you with her?

Arthur’s never shown you a picture of her. 

You have no idea what she looks like. 

The only thing you have to go on is a name. 

Mary, on the other hand...

Lord knows your name and face has been on just as many ‘wanted’ posters as his, after all these years with the gang. 

The thought that it might’ve been a friendly chat is abolished when Mary slaps you -  hard \- across the face.

Your head snaps to the side, and the impact is so sharp and strong that it sounds like a gunshot.

Then a  smile takes ahold of your face.

Arthur knows this smile. 

The smile that means you’re about to unleash hell, that everything in your path is going to be obliterated, that whatever is in your way will be decimated to nothing but  ash.

Arthur would intervene — really, he would, because he‘s seething at the audacity Mary has to  touch you — but then you’re laughing, a light and easy sound, like Mary had just told an adorable joke, before you’re turning back to her, murmuring words too low for his ears.

Words that do more damage than any hit could’ve done, because in seconds, Mary seizes you by the collar of your shirt, hissing like a rattlesnake coiled to strike.

Arthur’s had enough.

Because if she touches you one more time, he won’t be liable for his actions, will dissolve into rage incarnate. 

Only, when Mary catches his eye as he shoves his way through the rowdy crowd, she does the unthinkable.

She uses the hold to snare you into a kiss. 

To which everyone - you and Arthur included - freeze. 

Not for long, though. 

The crowd erupts into hollers, wolf-whistles and cheers. 

Arthur himself goes red in the face.

Not out of embarrassment or arousal, but  anger. 

Before, he’d been outraged at Mary’s audacity for touching you. 

Now? 

He’s foaming at the mouth for the exact same reason, only the polar opposite intention behind it, because the slap had been to harm you, but this kiss is meant to provoke Arthur, to pleasure herself.

There are a number of things wrong with this notion, but the one at the forefront of his mind as he barrels through drunk bastards repeats in his head like a dark, possessive mantra, fueling his wrath and quickening his pace.

You are his.

•

You thrash in her hold when Mary’s tongue pries your lips open, to the point where you fall out of your chair, hissing like you’ve been bitten. 

“Christ, you’re a real piece of work,” you grouse, spitting on the ground, rubbing Linton’s saliva and lipstick off your mouth with a disgusted wince. 

You aren’t drunk, but you’ve definitely had a bit to drink, seeing as how you would’ve hopped back to your feet with the expertise of a gymnast had you not polished off two or three gallons of liquor in the last hour.

As it is, there’s a sturdy, familiar weight at your back, lifting you off the ground as easily as if you weighed less than a feather, cradling you like you’re as delicate as crystal, bracketing you against his sturdy chest so firmly that you could melt right into his bulk and die happy right there. 

“Arthur,” Mary hums, licking her bottom lip, her lashes fluttering from the taste of you spilling across her palate. 

“Mary,” Arthur manages in an impressively level voice, all things considering, through grit teeth. 

“... Fuck,” you bemoan, wanting so bad to inhale the nearest barrel of liquor and chalk this up to nothing but a strange, albeit vivid, fucking dream. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t touch what‘s  mine.” 

“Arthur, I didn’t— you don’t understand— this wasn’t anything—” 

You look up to explain, as best you can because this whole situation had escalated so fast that you’re surprised your neck hadn’t snapped from the whiplash.

But then his lips are covering yours and any pitiful explanations broiling on your tongue simmer because holy shit,  he tastes better than you imagined.

You moan - unabashed, lewd - into his mouth, uncaring of the small crowd that’s assimilated to watch the show, cheering boisterously at this latest development, unaware that the feisty little thing that’d tried to drive a wedge between the two of you had stormed off in a petulant, indignant rage.

You curl a hand around his neck, your opposite hand cradling a scruffy cheek.

“... Please tell me that wasn’t just to make her leave,” you mumble against his lips, part of you too scared to look him in the eye because you’ve been wanting to do that for  years. 

“Darlin’, if you don’t think I’ve been wantin’ to do that since the day I found you...”

You beam up at him, smiling so wide that your cheeks fucking ache, and surge up to kiss him again.

“Get a room!” Javier calls from somewhere close but simultaneously far away, a grin in his voice and a cackle leaving his lips as you turn around to cuss him out, only for Arthur to coax you back to him. 

“That don’t sound like a bad idea,” Arthur muses, peppering your cheeks with kisses.

“Might be the best one our musician’s ever had,” you agree, tangling your fingers in hair, sealing the gap between you.


	3. cold.

You and Arthur stumble into a hotel just as the worst of the snowstorm rages outside, asking for the warmest room, ignoring the fact that it’s a single bed, wanting nothing more than sweet, glorious heat to thaw your skin, bones, marrow.

Though you’d each taken a steaming hot bat, wearing fresh, clean, dry clothes - courtesy of the hotel for two dollars extra - and have been basking by the fireplace for at least a half hour, the cold has seeped so deeply through your pores that you’re sure that it’s freezing the blood in your veins because the ice doesn’t leave your body, if the chattering of your teeth and the trembling of your whole body is any indication. 

Which is when you have a miraculous idea to warm both of you up. 

_____________________________

“What’re you expecting to see? Da Vinci’s masterpiece?” 

You laugh as your shirt pools to the ground, but Arthur can see right through it, knows that your self-deprecating humor is a defense mechanism, but he doesn’t want you to feel the need to use it around him. 

“Darlin’, with or without them clothes on, there ain’t a doubt in my mind that you are the most beautiful thing in this world.” 

For a change, you’re the one who’s blushing, starting from the dip of your collarbone to sneak up the column of your throat, paints your cheekbones the loveliest shade of pink he’s ever seen.

“Fuck, you can’t just  say things like that, Art.”

He opens his mouth to say that it’s the truth - one of the truest things he’s said in his life - but your mouth covers his before a syllable can form on his tongue.

Arthur groans into the kiss, the taste of fresh blueberries and fine whiskey enough to make his head spin - sweet and sharp, such an intense contrast that encapsulates you perfectly - but then your hands are unbuttoning his shirt, dainty fingers mapping out every inch of skin that’s revealed.

He’s so lost in your mouth that he doesn’t realize you’ve undone every last button, that the expanse of his torso and stomach are on display - knife wounds, bullet wounds, starbursts of shrapnel - until you’re easing off his lips.

Arthur doesn’t have as much as a second to complain about the loss before your mouth is trailing a hot, searing path down his neck — biting and sucking at the vulnerable flesh of his throat with a vigor that capitalizes the fact that he’ll be brandishing these marks for days and he’ll be loving every fucking second of it — ghosting across his collarbone, heading down his chest.

You don’t let a single scar go unnoticed, unattended, unloved - tracing them from start to finish with your lips, repeating the process with your tongue, before you kiss the faded wound - like a promise, like you’ll come back soon, like this was just a glimpse of how much attention you truly intends to lavish it with - and move to the next.

He’s a flushed, panting, dazed mess in an embarrassingly short-span of time, but you don’t poke fun at him for it.

No, you’re revering his scars like they’re goddamn pieces of art that oughta be admired like the finest art.

Arthur wouldn’t last long like this. 

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but when he does, your eyes light up.

“Could I really make you come like this?” 

Your voice is breathless, dazed,  excited \- licking your lips, your thumbs drawing unbelievably  distracting circles against his hipbones.

Arthur bites back a moan as your pupils dilate at the prospect. 

“Later. We’ll find out later.” Arthur rasps, dragging your face to his so you don’t get any ideas.

You hum, unfazed, your lips parting easily, his tongue slipping into your mouth, intent on exploring every crevice the delicious cavern had to offer.

You moan appreciatively, kissing him with just as much vigor, your teeth scraping his bottom lip, your tongue soothing the sting, your lips going pliant beneath his.

He begins unbuttoning your flannel, and you rise up to shrug his coat off, but he stops you with a firm hand.

“Nuh-uh, darlin’. That stays. Everything else goes.”

Your eyes darken at the heady tone of his voice, a cocky smirk stealing your lips.

“Possessive little outlaw, aren’t you?”

“You dunno the half of it, baby girl.” 

He doesn’t miss the way a shiver ripples down your spine, how your breath catches in your throat, how you squeeze your thighs together for some -  any \- sort of friction. 

Arthur isn’t the type of man to leave his woman high and dry.

•

Your fingers tighten in his hair, his tongue working you with a dedication and precision that has you writhing beneath him, curses spilling from your lips like beautiful sins.

“Fuck, Arthur. J-just like that, baby.  Yes.”

He moans into your sex - the combination of your hoarse voice, of your trembling thighs around his shoulders, of the praise giving him a taste of a euphoria he didn’t know existed.

With three fingers working at you diligently, intent on making you as much of a mess as you’d made him, it isn’t until his lips latch around the bundle of nerves, teeth grazing the lightest bit, that you’re keening, arching off the ground in such a way that his cock aches at the beautiful display. 

“Fuck!  S-sweetheart, I... I’m gonna—”

•

He’d rendered the silver-tongued devil to little more than broken sentences and wanton moans. 

Pride surges through his veins. 

He did this to you.

•

“Warm yet, darlin’?” Arthur asks, teasing lightheartedly because the light sheen of sweat glistening 

“I don’t know... Think I might need another heat wave... Don’t want to get hypothermia, y’know?”

Arthur moans when you nip at his neck, laving your tongue over the little pecks, before you’re sinking your teeth into the delicious terrain of his neck and shoulder, hands tracing the scars of his torso and abdomen, stops right above his hardening, leaking cock and giving a loving but firm squeeze.

“Yer wish is my command, baby girl.”


	4. confessions.

“God, I love you.”

Arthur stops. 

Everything. 

Moving, thinking, breathing. 

Because that one sentence, those three words, this blatant confession steals him of any coherency.

“What did you just say?”

You don’t seem to realize what you’ve said, the gravity of the words that linger in the air like smoke from gunfire, thick enough that it feels like it could suffocate him.

The look across his face must be a sight to behold - very rarely had Arthur been truly dumbfounded, at a complete loss for words.

Because then your eyes slide back to him, wondering what's caused such a reaction. 

“You do know that I love you, right?”

“Buchanan, knock it off,” Arthur grits through clenched teeth, storming past her with a delicate heart in his throat and a chest gnarled in suffocating hope, desire, want, need, love—

Only for a small but strong hand to curl around his wrist, effectively holding him in place - not because she’d sunk her nails into the skin or yanked him back to stay still, but because his brain short-circuits at the simple touch, every nerve ending flaring to life, his blood singing in his veins. 

“Arthur, I’m in love with you.”

He can’t move, not when she’s looking at him like that, but he doesn’t know how to respond because the last three people he loved - Eliza, Isaac, Mary - had all left him in one way or another. 

He can’t handle losing one more person. Especially when that person is  you. 

“Buchanan, y’dunno know what yer sayin’.”

Using your pointer finger to lift up the brim of his hat, giving you ample view of the beautiful crimson flooding his cheeks, you softly murmur, “Arthur Morgan, I scraped my hands and knees falling for you.”

He can’t take much more.

His fingers coil in the fabric of your jacket, yanking you to him, your bodies flush against each other, so much so that you have to feel the way his heart is threatening to decimate his rib-cage.

“This ain’t funny, Buchanan,” Arthur snarls, but there isn’t any bite behind it. He’d rather die a million deaths than lay as much as a finger on you.

With a solemnity and stoicism that Arthur has only caught glimpses of during heists, your voice spills from your lips like gravel coated in molten honey, deep and sincere.

“I‘m not laughing, Arthur.”

Breathing in shakily, like it had the capability of shattering him into a million pieces, he stares down at the ground, steeling his resolve, ready to tear into her for joking about something like that, like  this.

Only, when his eyes flicker up from the ground to her face, he sees nothing but pure, absolute adoration in those pools of emerald.

“Arthur, I... I know I’m a piece of shit. I know I’m a liar, a degenerate, a thief. I know you deserve more, you deserve so much better than me, but... But I love you so fuckin’ much.”

“You got it backwards, darlin’... I don’t deserve you. I’m old, ugly, pathetic—”

“That... That right there is the only thing I hate, Arthur. When you put yourself down like that. You’re one of the smartest people I know, but you’re an absolute fool when you’re talking about yourself. You aren’t old. You’re 36-years-old. Folks don’t kick the bucket ‘til their 70’s, 80’s, 90’s. You are the polar opposite of ugly. You’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen... Da Vinci himself couldn’t capture your perfection. And you are the furthest thing from pathetic. You’re the reason the gang‘s lasted this long.”

“Arthur Morgan, I’ve been in love with you since the day you found me those five years ago.”

Arthur cups your face in his palms, thumb caressing the jagged scar that falls across your lips, before claiming them.

“I love you, too” Arthur breathes against your mouth, indulging in the stinted inhale that the words induce from you.

As if the possibility of him not returning the favor was outrageously high, but you couldn’t go another day without him knowing how you feel - how you’ve felt - for years.

”I love you so much, baby girl,” Arthur murmurs against your throat, biting and licking at the sweet, tangy skin, something primal inside him growling contentedly at the thought of her wearing his mark for everyone to see that you belong to him, just as he belongs to you.

It’s different from the kisses you’ve shared before - slow, languid, thorough.

As if you have an eternity-and-a-half to absolutely devour each other.

And the two of you would kill anyone who said otherwise.


	5. domesticity.

You’ve been meandering off at the crack of dawn and the peak of dusk for weeks. 

Arthur would be lying if he said he isn’t curious -  jealous \- at whatever  (whoever) was stealing you away from him. 

But then, one crisp morning, you ask him if he trusts you, and there isn’t so much as a second of hesitation when he responds, “With my life.”

The smile he’s rewarded with floods his chest with warmth.

•

You ask him to join you on a stroll through Strawberry. 

Arthur doesn’t think much of it initially, muscle memory leading him to the bar, but when you pass that, he easily falls in-step with you for the hotel, only you don’t stop there either.

Confused but curious, Arthur asks you what’s up your sleeve.

And gets his answer in the form of a house along the outskirts of Strawberry.

He finds that it’s... 

It’s not just a house, but a  home.

Because there’s furniture, photographs, toys...

Wait. 

Toys?

•

You haven’t moved from the doorframe, watching his reaction with a combination of unease and apprehension, worrying your bottom lip so ferociously that iron taints your tongue crimson. 

Only to feel like a fool for your crippling anxiety when Arthur whips around and engulfs you in his arms, hugging you tightly, spinning you around, laughing as you yelp in surprise, as tears cloud his eyes. 

“How far along...?” Arthur asks, breathless, as if he’s been punched in the stomach, all the air knocked out of his lungs, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

You brush bronze bangs out of his face, marveling at the mile-wide smile across his face, sapphire pools shining with glee. “Three months. Figured that the surprise wouldn’t be much of a surprise when you noticed that I had Uncle’s beer belly.”

“Baby... We’re having a baby...”

“That’s... That’s okay, right? Because I don’t want you to feel forced or obligated—“

“Darlin’, this is more than okay. This is perfect. The day our child’s born will be tied for the best day of my life.”

“Which was...?”

“The day you got down on one knee and asked me to marry you.”

“You’re such a sap,” you grouse, but you bury your face in his throat, shielding tears of happiness and adoration from him.

Little did you know, he was doing the same. 

**_ * T h r e eY e a r sL a t er * _ **

_“Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,_

_Which, like growing fountains, rise.”_

Arthur finds himself paralyzed, absolutely in awe of the voice of his best friend, his lover, his wife. 

_“To drown their banks, grief’s sullen brooks,_

_Would better flow in furrow’d looks.”_

He's heard you hum a few times before, sure, but this... 

_“Thy lovely face was never meant,_

_To be the shore of discontent.”_

This left him speechless.

_“Then clear those waterish stars again,_

_Which else portend a lasting rain.”_

Dickie’s out like a light, nestled in the crook of your neck, one hand bunched in your shirt, sucking on the thumb of his other.

_“Lest the clouds which settle there,_

_Prolong my winter all the year.”_

You delicately lay him in his crib, humming softly as you tuck him in, safe and sound, brushing his dark locks out of his face - Richard “Dickie” Morgan had his mother’s hair, his father’s eyes and a combination of just about everything else - and kissing his forehead sweetly as you sing the last lyrics. 

_“And thy example others make_

_In love with sorrow for thy sake.”_

You don’t notice that you have an audience until you blow out the candle and see a hulking, shadowy figure in the doorway.

Had you not spent the last ten minutes lulling your son - Jesus, it’s been three years and your heart never fails to overflow with warmth from those two words — y o u rs o n -your scream would’ve shattered glass (never again will you listen to fucking John and his fucking ghost stories).

•

The first time Dickie called you “Mama”, you teared up for two reasons.

1.) Your son had just said his first word, holy shit, he’d said a word, an actual word, something that has a definition in the dictionary.

2.) Mama. He’d just called you “Mama”. You have a beautiful baby boy and he’d just called you, “Mama.”

•

_“Mama!”_

_You don’t realize that tears have gathered in your eyes, that your breath has stalled in your chest, because you couldn’t have imagined this scenario in your wildest dreams - you thought you’d be dead by 25, but here you are at 26, with a gorgeous husband and a beautiful son - a sharp pang resonating in your chest from the aching adoration._

_With your heart in your throat, a watery, happy smile tugs at your mouth._

_“Mama?” Dickie persists, sensing your distress, tiny fists bunching in your shirt, staring up at you with those fierce blue eyes that you recognize all-too-well._

_“I’m here, little one. Mama’s right here.”_

_When Dickie is fast asleep, stories of fearless cowboys, lightning-fast trains, family that runs deeper than blood, echoing through the quiet, you ease him into bed, carefully nudging Teddy against his side - because a good night’s sleep is impossible without his treasured stuffed bear - and tuck his blanket snugly around him._

_You kiss his temple softly._

_“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”_

•

As it is, you’re able to make out the handsome, familiar details of one Arthur Morgan. 

You raise a finger to your lips, leaving the door ajar behind you, ready to tear into him for scaring the ever-loving shit out of you.

Only to find brilliantly blue crystals gleaming with tears. 

“Art? You okay?”

He doesn’t say anything, his voice lost somewhere that wouldn't be giving it back anytime soon. 

Instead of a verbal answer, you’re snared into a spine-crushing hug that empties your lungs of air and lifts you about three inches off the floorboards. 

You wouldn’t be complaining anytime soon, take this in stride, hug him just as fiercely.

These are the best hugs, because Arthur is the epitome of a grizzly bear — strong, intimidating, deadly, but the handful of people that know him intimately know that, while he doesn’t demonstrate affection often, when he does, it’s sincere, endearing and adoring.

He’s also the king of cuddling, but you wouldn’t be spilling that secret to anyone anytime soon. 

“Everything okay, baby?” You ask again, albeit hoarsely, as you’d had an impromptu round of singing and the air literally squeezed out of you. 

Arthur loosens his grip - just barely, enough for you to regain your footing on the floor beneath you, enough for oxygen to rush through your nostrils so fast that you get a bout of whiplash, enough for you to see the smile, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, curving his mouth.

“Everything’s absolutely perfect, baby girl.”

•

Early the next morning, as the sun slowly saunters up the sky, beautiful pastels of pink, orange and purple bleeding to create one of hundreds of beautiful sunrises you’ve watched in your lifetime, Arthur finds you perched on the steps of the patio, staring through the horizon with glassy eyes, cradling a steaming cup of coffee in your hands.

Arthur doesn't say anything, finds his seat behind you, his legs resting outside yours, hooks his arms around your waist, until your back is flush against his chest and he can feel your heart beat steadily against his.

You link your fingers of your free hand together with his as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Everything okay, baby?” Arthur asks, voice rough as gravel and deep as the ocean. 

“I love you.”

You can’t see him in this position, but you know exactly how he’s reacting - those three words have a Pavlovian effect. 

Arthur freezes, like he can't believe you’ve just said that to him, before a dusty shade of rose will flourish in his cheeks and he’ll duck his head down in a half-hearted attempt to hide his flush.

You smile, one of those things that makes his breath stutter in his chest and his ears tinge pink because it was beautiful and authentic and it was meant for him and him alone. 

“I love you, too.”

He raises your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles with a tenderness that would've brought you to your knees if you’d been standing.

“So...” You nudge your steaming mug into his free hand, which he accepts with a grateful peck to the line of your jaw. 

Arthur rests his chin in the oasis of your neck and shoulder, humming in question, kissing the skin there with a delicacy that most people wouldn’t think he’s capable of - but you aren’t most people and you’re fucking glad for it - and takes a generous sip from the steaming cup. 

“How do you think Dickie would feel about having a baby brother or sister?”

Arthur spits out his coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is actually a poem titled “Dry Those Fair, Those Crystal Eyes” by Henry King, but was set to music by the English composer Edward Elgar in 1899.


	6. existing isn’t living.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S P O I L E R W A R N I N G ! ! ! 
> 
> This takes place one year after Arthur dies.
> 
> You haven’t been the same since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T R I G G E R W A R N I N G ! ! ! 
> 
> Thoughts of suicide & implied suicide.
> 
> Tread carefully or avoid this chapter if this topic hits a little too close to home.

You miss him.

The sound of his laugh. 

The color of his eyes.

The sight of his smile.

Such little things. 

Things that most people don't even think twice about.

You want to forget him. 

Push the very thought of him into the darkest recesses of your mind, in the hopes of waking up one day and forgetting him completely.

Doing that would just make his voice pound loud and heavy in your ears, cause his image to burn behind your eyelids, make your nerve endings tingle with anticipation as if his fingertips had skimmed across your skin.

You sleep around. Often. Too often.  Pick up bait from local bars. A drink here, a flirt there and soon enough, you’d end up in a hotel, tangled in the sheets with a stranger whose name you didn’t care to ask for. 

Everyone in the gang encouraged you to move on, to stop thinking about him, because death might not be contagious, but with each and every passing day that you deteriorate, it doesn’t have to be. 

You had tried to look for a real relationship at first. Honestly. But you’d end-up comparing every single one to him. 

You didn't even realize you were doing it. 

Eyes aren't the right color. Voice is too high. Clothes are too pretentious. Ego is too inflated. Laugh is forced. Smile is deceiving. 

In the ecstasy of climax, you had to bite your tongue so you wouldn't scream his name. 

•

You clutch at your head, nails painfully digging into your scalp, a futile attempt to stop the voice that rips at the crumbling remains of your sanity.

**End this miserable excuse of a life.**

_I'm not miserable… I'm alive._

**You've got a pulse, you're breathing, and you're one of six billion souls that roam the Earth. But that isn't living. That‘s simply existing.**

_They're the same thing._

**Sometimes repeating a lie thousands of times doesn't make it true.**

**Drowning in alcohol isn't living.**

**Dreading the sun coming up in the morning isn't living.**

**Wasting all of your hard-earned money on alcohol and tobacco isn't living.**

**Having each heartbeat make your rib cage feel like it will shatter isn't living.**

**Stamping a smile on your face when people ask if you're all right doesn't mean that you're happy when it disappears the second you're alone.**

**Face it.**

**You can't live without him.**

_I lived for thirteen years without him… I can live thirteen more without him._

**Is that so?**

**Then why do you compare every single moment of your day to a moment with him?**

**The second a light slips between the cracks of your facade, you smother it with plaster, and shroud yourself in darkness again.**

_There were other things before him. Plenty of other things._

**Really?**

_Simple things._

**Like watching the sun rise and set?**

**Never really did much of that until you’d found him sitting at the edge of a cliff, sketching the sun set, beautiful shades of orange, pink and yellow bleeding together, creating a masterpiece to marvel at as the light dissipated, darkness swallowing up the sky, lined with hundreds of stars, the moonlight spilling across his face, accentuating the sharp details of his face so beautifully that you couldn’t look for too longbecause if you didn’t force yourself to tear your gaze away, you’d do something ludicrous and kiss every square inch of gorgeous skin displayed.**

_Sunrises and sunseats are overrated._

**How about music?**

**You can't deal with that either.**

**The strum of guitar strings are like nails of a chalkboard without his gruff timber joining in abashedly.**

**Every single voice that echoed out of any** **song is instantly compared to his - how they could never compare to the resonant, sonorous sound of his voice, the emotion laced within the words, the way that the lyrics flowed like melted honey to your ears.**

**Hearing the keys of a piano make you choke on nothing, reminding you of how his fingers would lace through yours, asking if you’d honor him with a dance.**

_Music is a waste of time._

**Quit kidding yourself.**

**You managed to make it this far without your other half because you didn't know what it was like to be complete.**

**Now that he's gone, you are empty.**

**The alcohol numbs the pain briefly, but it doesn't make it disappear.**

You down a shot of whiskey, savoring the sweet burn as it leaks down your throat, ignites in your stomach. 

You’ve lost count of how much alcohol you’ve inhaled, but given the gracious number of empty bottles littering your living room, you’re rough guess is about four or five gallons.

The sound of a sharp crack reaches your ears. You don’t doubt that it’s from how hard you slam your glass down. Doesn’t matter, though. 

Nothing can drown out the incessant voice pestering your skull like a tenacious woodpecker.

**Downing those like a professional, aren't you?**

**But the alcohol isn't as strong as it used to be.**

**Your wallet's getting thinner and your tolerance is getting stronger.**

Won't be for another hour until you're too drunk to feel or remember the pain. 

**Why wait?**

**Why repeat the same cycle of drowning in alcohol for days, when you could bite the bullet once, and never have to do it again?**

_I’ve got things to live for. I have a gang to take care of._

**A gang that will continue to thrive and prosper, whether you decided to off-yourself tonight or wait for nature to take its course.**

**The cycle will continue, with or without you.**

**There will always be another bounty to be hunted, locked behind bars for a couple of years before being tossed back into the world.**

**There will always be another train stashed with cash, weapons and supplies to be hijacked.**

**There will always be another heist that will go right or wrong, whether you’re there or not.**

**Don’t you see?**

**You’re expendable.**

_I have a family._

**Of which, those closest to you are dead.**

**Hosea was the father figure that you never had.**

**Lenny was the younger brother you’d always wanted,**

**Sean was the drinking buddy who’d give you a run for your money.**

**Arthur... Arthur was everything**

**As for the rest, well... They aren’t your biological family, are they?**

**They can all see how much you're suffering. These people are willing to watch you suffer until the day you die from natural causes, to ease the burden of guilt resting on their shoulders. When every day is such an effort to get up in the morning, to drag your feet across the floor, to simply inhale, what kind of family are you living for?**

_I can't leave John... Not like this. He’d never forgive me._

**John’s been there for you through thick and thin, just as you've been for him.**

**He said it himself, he'd rather die than watch you suffer.**

**Never said anything about what you'd rather do if you were suffering.**

**Your best friend that will move on. People die every day. You know that better than anyone else.**

**Sure, he'll be bummed out for a bit. Might sink into a depression, handle it just like you have for the past year. But he‘ll move on. He has a real family to fall back on.**

_Then why can't I move on?_

**Because a bird can't fly with one wing.**

You’re fumbling for an excuse to live. 

Why? 

Is dying really so bad? 

The agonizing pain in your chest hadn't dulled remotely, flares into an all-consuming inferno when you think about him. 

The tears have yet to fall, yet that stinging in the back of your eyes lingers. As if they’re ready to stream down your face without a moment's notice. 

Every inhale is forced, and you don’t exhale until your lungs scream for release. 

You don’t do it consciously. 

Your subconscious simply wants painful reassurance that you’re still living. 

No… 

Still existing.

You stare at the cracked spiderweb along the glass, then watch as millions of pieces of glass shatter in a tragically beautiful barrage of shards as you hurl it against the wall, the fragments shining in an abundance of dazzling colors, raining to the floor. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at those pieces of glass, seeing nothing and everything in them. 

Memories that once graced your mind now plague you torturously. 

You oughta be treasuring the moments you’d had with him, not fighting the urge to scream until your throat was raw when each memory flashed behind your eyelids.

Your thoughts slowly start piecing together, like a child who begins working out a puzzle. 

You make a blind grab for the nearest bottle, emptied in seconds. 

That was your last bottle of booze. 

You look around the room, the graveyard of empty bottles, all of them wrenched of a single drop.

**You're not sober enough to function, but you aren't drunk enough to forget.**

You want to forget. 

God, do you want to forget. 

You want to forget the scent of leather, gun powder and sandalwood that mixed in an indescribably fantastic way. 

You want to forget the crystalline eyes that captivated you with a single glance. 

You want to forget the smile that made all of your troubles go away.

You want to forget the presence that brought you more comfort than you thought possible. 

You want to forget the laugh that made even the worst days ten-times better. 

You want to forget the sound of his voice when he’d say “I love you”.

Above all else, you want to forget how much you loved him. 

You should’ve been terrified of how much you loved him, by the risks you’d been willing to take just to stand by his side. 

But it didn't. 

If anything, it just exhilarated you. You’d never felt so alive. You’d have followed him into the fiery gates of Hell, without him having to ask. 

**Really? Then what are you waiting for?**

There’s something cold and heavy clutched in your fingers. The gun fits more perfectly in your hand right now than it ever has. Even when taking out the scum of the earth. 

There are six bullets in this revolver. But you only need one to do the job. Granted, if your aim hasn't been impaired by the gallons of alcohol you've drained.

You stare at the hand-crafted silver piece of metal in your hands. 

Quick.

Easy.

Painless. 

**Simple.**

You don’t believe in a supreme being. 

Sure, the idea that someone, something, like that existed wasn’t too farfetched, but you’d never believed in it. 

Truth be told, you hadn’t thought about a life after this one. 

Was there something after this?

Would he be standing on the other side? 

Is he waiting for you? 

**Never know 'till you go.**

The gun is lighter than it’s ever been before. 

Empty, sunken eyes stare back at you within the stainless steel.

Unhealthily pale skin was taut against bone - gaunt, skeletal, cadaverous. 

There’s no hesitation in putting the barrel against your temple. 

Your thumb tears at the safety, ready to take a life, but you wouldn’t be tying this one to the back of your horse and turning it in for a bounty.

**Any last thoughts?**

The sound of his voice is so vivid that you nearly whirl around. 

-

_Don't do this._

_You have so much to live for._

_Talk to someone — anyone._

_Let them help you._

_Please. For me._

You choke back a sob at the sound of his voice.

_… Home... I just… I just want to go home._

**Where are you now?**

_In our house._

**And that's not home?**

You smile - small, bittersweet - before your finger closes around the trigger.

**_ Home is in his arms. _ **


	7. first kiss.

He kisses you first.

Because there have been so many close-calls, so many times where his heart has stopped cold in his chest, so many times where he's seen you take damage that would've killed a regular person, that he just can't take it. 

•

Your first kiss tastes like blood, sweat and tears. 

The blood is yours, the tears are his and the sweat is a combination.

When you come to, the first thing you register is the throbbing in your skull, an all-encompassing pain that has you dreading opening your eyes, wishing you‘d kicked the bucket because death sounds much more appetizing than this agonizing pain.

The next thing is the potent, acrid stench of iron - of blood - that you can feel leaking down the left side of your face, so strong that you can taste it.

The third and final thing is that you’re being cradled in someone’s arms, being rocked back and forth, their voice coming out of their lips in a broken, desperate plea.

_“Please... Don’t do this to me... You can’t leave... Darlin’, please... Open them beautiful eyes... Come back... Come back to me...”_

Regardless of how many bullets had zipped through your brain, you could recognize that drawl any day of the week.

“... Arthur?” 

•

Blood seeps down your temple, paints half your face a deep crimson. 

The bullet should’ve killed you. 

It’d been a clean-shot right through the temple. 

But somehow, besides being disoriented and dizzy from the blood-loss, you’re okay.

It’s only after about fifteen reassurances of,  _‘I’m okay, Art - I’m okay,’_ that his heart begins to calm, his ears aren’t pounding and he can  breathe.

But then he’s closing what little distance there was between you and kissing you with every ounce of passion that he’s quelled for  years.

And you hum into his mouth.

“Even better than I’d thought…”

He can’t stop thinking about the fact that you’d been thinking about him too, and he starts wondering how much time he’s wasted by being a cowardly bastard, but then he decides that he isn’t going to waste a single moment more, and he kisses you again.

And again.

And  a g a i n .

Just until your lips are pink, kiss-swollen, and the dazed look in your eyes is from more than just the dizziness and blood-loss.

_“Fuck, sweetheart_ \- I could do this all day.”

And there’s nothing Arthur wants more than to do just that. 

But you  are in the middle of O’Driscoll territory. 

And there’s a startling amount of blood coursing down your face. 

And there’s a bed with your names on it back in Strawberry. 


	8. guilt.

You’re back.

He hears the flap of his tent moving to the side, your footsteps careful and calculated.

Had he been asleep, he wouldn’t have heard them.

But as of this moment, the near-silent thud of your boots against the ground reaches his ears.

A beat of silence.

Then, the rustle of clothing.

Lastly, fingers delicately threading through his hair, and a pair of loving lips tenderly kissing his forehead.

“I love you... So much...”

A sniffle reaches his ears, cracks your voice in-two, your next words coming out wet and thick.

“I don’t deserve you...”

Are... Are you crying?

He can’t make out your face in the dark, but the way your voice cracks is impossible to mistake.

Before you can leave, he reaches up for your wrist, holds you firmly in place.

You start, surprised at the contact. 

“Arthur—?”

He kisses you. 

He kisses you with the fire, passion, love you evoke in him when he thought it’d died years ago.

“I love you, I love you, I love y—“

You laugh, but it isn’t relieved or joyous. 

The noise is weak, devastated, broken.

“You shouldn’t.”

Arthur doesn’t ask what you’re talking about - knows that you’re blaming things that aren’t your fault, things that you never had any control over - and kisses you so hard that your mouth is bruised, your lips are cherry-red and there isn’t as much as an atom between you. 

The only thing that matters is taking you - the person that’d saved him from himself, that’d made life so much easier to swallow, that made him think that there might be hope left in this world and that it was in the shine of your smile - into his arms.

“You don’t know what you’re taking about. You’re the best thing that happened to this gang, to this family, to me. You’re... God, you’re everything. ”

•

The smile that makes your eyes shimmer like flawless gems, that eases the tension in your shoulders, that makes his chest swell with pride and victory and happiness because he‘s the one who made you smile. 

But that wasn’t the smile he was faced with at this moment.

No, the smile was forced, a twitch of the lips at best, that didn’t reach your eyes.

This smile was wrong, strained and dismal and he wanted to fight it.

•

Your facade is nearly flawless.

Save for the haunted stare that he'll occasionally stumble across.

Occasionally is being gratuitous.

He's only caught it a handful of times. 

But witnessing this thousand-yard stare once was enough for worry to fester - cold and heavy and sickening - in his chest, spreading like ivy, turning his blood to ice.

Leads him to wonder how long it'd taken you to perfect that carefree mask of jovial indifference you wear constantly.

Something like that couldn’t have been easy - plastering something so vibrant over something so dark. 

Especially when the vibrance was strained, forced,  fake.

He finds himself questioning the validity of your smiles. 

Which were fake? 

Which were genuine? 

Which tears were from laughter?

Which tears were from the dam finally bursting?

He wasn’t angry at you for hiding this from him.

On the contrary, he was angry with himself.

Because he should’ve realized it sooner.

When the light in your eyes flickers, he gingerly laces your fingers together, squeezes your hand.

“You doin’ all right, darlin’?”

_Come back to me._

Sometimes, you snap out of it quickly, like a switch flipping.

“Hm? O’ course, Art. Just thinkin’ with what few brain cells I have left,” you’ll laugh, using the hold to tug him in for a peck on his cheek.

Sometimes, it takes a little longer.

“Yeah... Yeah, I'm okay.”

The smile doesn’t reach your eyes, which can’t quite meet his.

That’s when he’ll take matters into his own hands. 

He’ll take both of your hands in his, cradling them like delicate glass, before bringing one up to his lips and kissing the pulse that flutters beneath his mouth.

“I’ve got you, baby girl...”

You aren’t overly emotional or sentimental, but when he does this, your throat works as you swallow thickly, an authentic, shy smile finding its proper place across your face.

_“How did I get this lucky?”_


	9. high enough.

You’d suffered major injuries - losing two liters of blood, a concussion that makes migraines look like a walk in the park.

The wounds - from a blade, fucking psychopath snuck up behind you, whipped out a jagged hunting knife and speared you like he was readying dinner -requiring stitches in your stomach, shoulder and inches away from a major artery.

On the bright side, the bastard was so transfixed on turning you into a visceral pincushion that he didn’t notice Arthur behind him, emptying his revolver in the bounty’s skull, the face mangled beyond the point of recognition.

John and Charles picked-up and handed the bounty over to the sheriff’s office in Valentine, while Arthur rushed you to the doctor in Strawberry.

Though you’d passed out halfway there from the blood loss, Arthur never stopped talking to you.

•

_Don’t do this to me, darlin’._

_Stay with me, honey._

_Yer gonna be just fine, angel._

_We’re so close, baby girl._

_You can’t leave me... You can’t... I can’t live without half of my heart._

•

Hours later, after three blood transfusions and an insane amount of stitches, the doctor is able to stabilize you. 

Arthur was so relieved to hear that you’d be all right that he slumps back in the chair he’d been forced to sit in for six hours while the doctor patched you up.

When he asks if he can see you, the doctor smiles kindly and nods.

“She’s asleep right now - the body needs rest after the trauma she’s sustained - but you’re welcome to sit with her. Though, I must warn you... The amount and potency of the pain killers she’s on may make her a bit... Ah... What’s the word...”

•

High.

That’s the word.

You’re high as a kite.

Least, that’s the only word that comes to mind when you slowly blink your eyes open - about three hours after Arthur had pulled up a chair by your bedside and tenderly ran his fingers through your hair - and they’re dilated to the point where he can’t make out the color of your irises, completely eclipsed by the blacks of your pupils.

That, and the words pouring out of your mouth like sweet, molten honey that flush his cheeks cherry-red, tint the tips of his ears pink and have his heart hammering in his throat.

•

"You have such beautiful eyes, Arthur."

His face feels like it‘d catch fire.

"T-they ain’t nothin’ special, Buchanan."

"Nuh-uh. When you're happy, they turn this shade of cerulean that leaves me floored. When you're focused, they become this cobalt that takes my breath away. When you’re angry, they bleed into a navy that rattles me down to the marrow.” 

Arthur can't make eye contact, his ears burning.

"Wish you could see yourself through my eyes, Art," you sigh, glancing up, glazed eyes tracing lazy patterns in the pitch of your tent.

"... What‘s there to see?" Arthur asks quietly, finding a shred of confidence that had been failing him for months.

You don’t say anything for a moment, and Arthur thinks that consciousness has slipped through your fingers from the drug-induced haze. 

But then your voice pierces the silence, words falling like liquid velvet from your lips.

"Your hair."

"What... What about my hair?" Arthur asks self-consciously, reaching a hand up to try and pat it down. 

Only a smaller hand catches his wrist before he can.

"Don't try to fix it. Not like you'd be able to, anyways. You've got this permanent bed-head, Art. Looks like you've been good and thoroughly  fucked ."

His throat goes dry, his tongue shriveling up in his mouth, choking at the choice words.

"Sexiest thing I've seen. Wanna run my hands through it. Wanna tug and pull ‘til you look absolutely debauched."

The blood in his veins is burning, scalding beneath his skin, the husky tone of your voice making him bite his lip.

"Your voice. Fuck, Arthur.  Your voice . Gets hard to think straight when you talk. Especially when you just wake up or start gettin’ angry. Feels like your voice is thrumming in my bones. Wanna know what it sounds like when you moan. Wanna make you forget every word in the English language except my name. Wanna have you scream it. Wanna hear you fall apart and piece you back together."

Arthur can't stop the groan that tears out of his throat, his flush crawling from his neck to his cheeks, his heart thrashing against his rib-cage, his blood pounding in his ears.

_ " Christ, Buchanan ." _

"Your scars... Fucking pieces of art. Know you're self-conscious about them, but you shouldn't be. Wanna kiss your face, your arms, your chest. Wanna trace the scars with my tongue. Wanna lavish ‘em with attention ‘til you realize how incredible they are. How incredible  you are."

Arthur thinks that his chest is going to burst, feels his eyes sting with tears as he tries to swallow around a heavy wad of emotion lodged in his throat. 

"Oh...  Oh, shit. Arthur, please don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset. Should've kept my stupid mouth shut. Fuck. Please don't be sad. I never meant to—"

Arthur would never find out what you never meant, because he'd chosen this moment to cut off your rambling by framing your face with his hands and kissing you silent.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, a noise that makes his lips tingle and raised goosebumps on his skin.

Arms sling around his shoulders, urging him closer, closing the gap between you. 

Fingers come to tangle in his hair, just as they’d wanted to, Arthur moaning into your mouth as they massage his skull and tug at his locks. 

God, this was better than he could have imagined. 

Teeth nibble at his lower lip. 

There's a tongue sweeping across the abused skin, almost apologetically, before prodding at the seam of his mouth. 

Arthur doesn't think twice when he parts his lips, meets your tongue with his, moving his hands from your face to your waist.

_"Fuck..."_ You breathe against his mouth when oxygen has been deprived for too long.

"Why didn't you  say  anything?" Arthur asks breathlessly, brushing loose chestnut strands out of your face, tucking them behind your ear.

"Never thought you'd like someone like me," you admit quietly, leaning up so you could place kisses along the rim of his jaw.

Arthur’s eyes roll to the back of his head when you start licking and sucking at the tender flesh of his throat. 

A groan starts to rumble deep in his chest, but then his brain catches up. 

"Wait... Wait, Buchanan…”

You don’t listen, continue to drag your mouth down his neck, nibbling at the sharp edge of his collarbone.

"What do you mean 'someone like you'?"

"Forget about it, sweetheart."

The endearment makes him flush a brilliant shade of red.

"N-no.  What did you mean?"

"Dammit, Art. You really know how to kill the mood, huh? You're a good, a great, a perfect man. You’re this insurmountable force that could move mountains. You're this impossible enigma encompassed in this magnificent person... I'm just a piece of shit that's grateful to be near you. Would've ended up dead in a ditch if I hadn't met you. "

"Buchanan. Look at me."

_"Olivier Isabelle Buchanan, open your eyes and look at me."_

You tense beneath him, your muscles going rigid. 

With an intense heat, he watches the movement of your throat as you swallow thickly, before your eyes slowly open. 

"Don't you ever,  _ever_ speak like that about yourself again. Do you understand me?"

You don’t say anything, try to look away from his eyes, but Arthur holds you in place with firm fingers on your chin.

"Do you understand me?"  Arthur repeats lowly.

You shudder beneath him, and he remembers what you’d said about his voice. 

About the effect it had on you.

"Yeah, okay, cowboy. Whatever you say,” you agree dismissively, reaching for his wrist and tugging it away from your face. 

"Mind if I get my mouth back on you? Been waiting for this for awhile, y'know." 

Gathering your wrists in one of his hands, he pins them above your head, effectively stopping your distracting movements, allowing him to think coherently. 

"I want to hear you say that you understand me."

"Fuck, Arthur."

"Say it, Olivier."

_ " Fuck! I understand you!  _ _Loud and clear!"_

Arthur can't believe the effect he's having on you. 

It's... 

_ Exhilarating . _

"God, you weren't joking about that, were you?" He breathes out. 

“Don’t ever joke with you, baby.”

Your grin is coy and your eyes are mischievous as you slip your wrists out of his hands, coil them around the nape of his neck and tilt his face down until your lips are right back where they belong.

“T-the medicine—“ Arthur pants, resting his forehead against yours, the only part of himself that’s touching you because he’s terrified of hurting you or tearing your stitches.

You chuckle.

“You’re kidding, right? These painkillers are nothing compared to the peyote party we had for Javier’s birthday.”

Arthur chuffs out a laugh, earning a grin out of you as you pepper his stubbled cheeks.

“Let’s not make this a regular occurrence, all right?”

Arthur’s fingers delicately trace the bandages decorating your shoulder and stomach, alluding to the wounds beneath them.

You catch his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together and kiss his calloused knuckles.

“I think that can be arranged... Though, I think I’ll need a bit of persuasion to not be so reckless...”

Arthur opens his mouth, but you silence him with a kiss that steals the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his head. 

He’s far from complaining.

And he’s certainly more than happy to delve into the art of persuasion.


End file.
